Shatter
by Foxglove Chant
Summary: Dean must help a shattered not-friend put her life back together. CHAPTER 3 UP! Will wonders never cease.
1. Default Chapter

**Disclaimer:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publisher including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.  
**A/N:** This promises to be rather strange. See if you can figure out who all the characters are =)   
  
WARNING: This is rated **R **for a good reason. This chapter includes violence and potentially disturbing themes. It IS NOT like Allstar; this is not a nice fic, or a happy fic, or a fun fic. It will probably have a light' ending, but I can't promise for anything that happens between here and then.   
  
2ND WARNING: Draco Malfoy plays a small but important role in this fic. If you like my Allstar Draco, you may not like this one. Any and all flames regarding Shatter Draco's character in comparison to Allstar Draco will be disregarded. The two fics are not connected except by basic fandom.  
_  
  
Quivering. Crouching, shrinking, shaking. Please...Please.  
  
An explosion of crimson heat.  
  
_Mr. Thomas, please take a seat. Are you aware of why I wanted to speak with you?  
  
_Blackness sinks in._  
  
I'm not sure, sir. Does this have something to do with my Mediwizard project?  
  
It does indeed. Madam Pomfrey told me you'd mentioned an interest in healing minds as well as bodies.  
  
Yes, sir.  
  
Well, young man, we may have just the case for you.  
  
_His Hands on my shoulders. His Fingernails in my cheek. His Face looming over me and receeding, spinning, sickening._  
  
A real case, sir? Here at Hogwarts?  
  
Yes, Mr. Thomas, here at Hogwarts. One of your schoolmates, in fact.  
  
_Stand up, bitch, you stupid cunt. Get up. I'm not finished with you._  
  
Pause. A Gryffindor, sir?  
  
  
  
_Sharp, sudden pain in my jaw. Dull ache in my stomach. This moment is everything; a microcosm of life. Now the darkness spirals towards me, always out of reach. Please._  
  
No, she's a student from Slytherin House.  
  



	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: ** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publisher including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.  
**A/N: ** I'm being a bad author and posting this pre-betaing. But I'm too impatient, and I'm wading through a difficult part of Allstar right now, so you all get this early =) I'll repost it after it's beta'd. Thanks muchly to Thom (Actually, I wasn't thinking Snape...), May, PartlyFoxyPartlyGrandma and cattail prophetess (Pansy indeed!) for their wonderfully encouraging reviews. Warnings from Chapter 1 still stand.  
  
  
When Pansy Parkinson came to, the first thing that registered in her mind was that she was lying in clean sheets. This was a welcome change; she invariably woke to find her bedding stained with blood. The second was that it was strangely difficult to move. Not difficult in the sense that she was stiff, for that was normal too. No, this was a different sort of difficulty. She moved an arm experimentally. It felt leaden, but shifted easily enough. Emboldened, she tried to move more forcefully. Her arm slid away from her prone body, as slowly as if she had tried to push it through a pool of molasses. She sighed. It was obviously no use trying to sit up, then, with this sort of restraining curse. She must have been taken to the infirmary while she was unconscious. Pansy tried to fall back asleep. There was nothing else to be done, and she hated being bored.   
  
What felt like hours later, Pansy was still staring at the canopy over her head. It was white, of course, with neat little pleats around the edges. The canopy version of hospital corners, she supposed. Pansy hated hospitals. Even now, the astringent smell of disinfectant was stinging her nose. In an effort to occupy herself, the Slytherin began listing poisonous herbs and their uses from memory. In her first few years at Hogwarts, she had been teased by her housemates for her proficiency at herbology, but that had ended when she finally got fed up in her third year and poisoned Blaise Zabini. It wasn't a deadly poison, of course, and Blaise had deserved it, the spiteful bitch. The month of detention had been worth the end to her friends' derision.  
  
_Digitalis to stop the heart, _Pansy thought happily. _Echinacea or goldenseal to override the immune system. Lobelia, henbane, celandine. Belladonna to cause hallucinations. Mistletoe, blood-root and chaparral._1  
  
At that moment, Madam Pomfrey bustled into the room. Pansy raised her head slightly, light-headed with effort.   
  
I don't suppose I could have a glass of water, she tried to say sardonically. It actually came out rather pitifully, given her dry throat.  
  
Of course, child. The dumpy witch conjured a cup, presumably from the adjacent kitchenette, and sat on the edge of Pansy's bed. Supporting the girl's head, she lifted the cup to her patient's lips. Pansy fumed at the indignity, but drank gratefully enough. She finished it as quickly as she could and waited impatiently to be released. Madam Pomfrey, however, seemed to have other ideas. Without releasing her grip, she set the glass down and began rocking gently back and forth. Pansy scowled.  
  
Oh, child, the matronly witch said softly, as if to herself. Dear child. Why do you endure this?  
  
I fell down the stairs, Pansy said irritably. The ones leading down to the Dungeons from the Charms corridor. You know how slippery they get in Spring. Will you let me go? Madam Pomfrey regarded her a moment, then finally set her back down as gently as she might an infant. Blinking suspiciously, the older woman continued to whisper to herself.  
  
Poor, poor child. How I wish you'd let me help you.  
  
Help me what? Pansy said rudely. Improve my balance? Madam Pomfrey gave her patient a sharp look.  
  
You aren't to excite yourself, now. Sleep for the day. Then we'll see how you're doing, she said firmly, cutting off Pansy's protests. And--child, you do remember that charm I taught you--last time? To alert Professor Dumbledore, next time you--fall down the stairs. Despite herself, Pansy was grateful for the acceptance of her fabrication.  
  
Yes, yes, she answered, not as insolently as she might have. It's just a bit difficult to perform when you're flying through the air, you know? Madam Pomfrey winced.   
  
Yes, well...Don't hesitate to use it if you ever do get the chance, dear. With that, she left the room much as she had entered it, with a reassuring aura of business.   
  


* * *   


  
Pansy awoke with a feeling of having slept deeply and well. This was a sure sign that there had been something in the water Madam Pomfrey had given her. She was getting better at her potions, Pansy reflected. There hadn't even been an aftertaste. Right on schedule,the witch in questionappeared at the door to her infirmary.   
  
Awake, are we? she said brightly. Pansy rolled her eyes. As if Madam Pomfrey hadn't known exactly how long her potion would last.   
  
I'm feeling much better, the Slytherin stated coolly. Could I go back to my dormitory now?   
  
Ah. Well. Actually, Professor Dumbledore has a special, er, project he'd like you to complete before you rejoin your housemates.   
  
What sort of project? Pansy had jumped into cautious' mode. This was potentially a very dangerous turn of events.  
  
Oh, it's one concerning--that is, it has to do with your--well, you'll be working with--Oh, just come along, Professor Dumbledore will explain it to you, I'm sure. Pansy moved cautiously and found that the restraining curse had been removed. Pushing herself out of the hard bed - hospital corners, a part of her mind noted - she saw for the first time that she was wearing a thin set of light green robes, Madam Pomfrey's uniform for long-term patients. This was definitely a bad sign. Pansy cleared her throat.  
  
If we're going out into the hallways, could I have something to wear over this? The polite words were belied by a sardonic tone, but the older witch seemed not to notice.   
  
Of course, of course. Here you are. She opened a cupboard, seemingly at random, and picked out a heavy, navy blue cloak. Pansy settled it over her shoulders and and made a face. It was big enough to fit Hagrid, and smelled of mothballs. Still, it was better than being seen in hospital robes. And, she reflected, it could always have been red. Pansy hated red.  
  
The two witches made their way up to the Headmaster's office, footsteps echoing eerily through the empty halls. Everyone else was at dinner, Pansy realised. The observation didn't stop her from treading as softly as she could, or from glancing over her shoulder at regular intervals. Even after they passed the stone gargoyles and entered the teachers' wing, Pansy retained her wariness. She could never afford to be caught by surprise.   
  
Finally, Madam Pomfrey stopped in front of a closed set of double doors. She knocked brusquely and they opened at once, as if by an unspoken command. Pansy peered into the room, hardly taking in the eccentric decor. There was Dumbledore, and there was Fawkes, about whom Pansy had heard many wild tales, and there, sitting perpendicular to the tiny old wizard was-- was--  
  
Pansy stepped back heavily. As much as she had sworn to be ready for anything, she could never have prepared herself for the sight that then met her eyes.  
  
  
1. These are real herbs, and the uses that I listed are true (so far as my research showed). Most of them actually have opposite effects in small doses, such as echinacea or digitalis, but can be harmful if too much is taken. 


	3. Chapter 3

Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.  
  
A/N: Wow, been a while *grin* I'm slightly back at the moment, and hope to stick around a while longer. This chapter is extra-long, with a little tiny cliffie, and I hope you all enjoy it. More specifically, I hope you all enjoy it enough to review ;-) Thanks for reading!  
  
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Dumbledore had just finished explaining his plan to Dean when the elderly wizard straightened, smiling.  
  
"And here they are," he exclaimed. Dean doubted that the excellent timing was an accident.  
  
As if of their own volition, the heavy doors of the headmaster's office swung open to reveal Madam Pomfrey and Pansy Parkinson. The patient in question surveyed the office, impassive. When her eyes came to rest on Dean, she stepped back heavily. Dean frowned, then quickly switched to what he hoped was a reassuring smile. Pansy didn't smile back. Dean hadn't really expected her to. However, she also didn't say anything snide and insulting, which he had. He knew she was in a bad situation, that she was a product of her experiences and all that. Knowing why she acted like a bitch didn't change the fact that she had been horrible to Dean and all his friends since first year. As a Muggleborn, Dean had often been on the receiving end of her biting tongue and he knew it was going to take all of his patience, compassion and dreams of being a psychologist to keep him from getting a bit of his own back from the Slytherin. Still . he sighed. Maybe she was nicer once you got to know her. He bloody well hoped so.  
  
"Well," Dumbledore said suddenly, "lets get started, shall we? Poppy, Miss Parkinson, please take a seat. Pansy gingerly lowered herself into the chair nearest the door, a straight-backed wooden contraption from the previous century. It was also, Dean noted, the chair farthest from himself. He shifted uncomfortably. Pansy hadn't taken her eyes off him since she'd entered the room, and she was now balanced on the very edge of her chair, as if she expected to have to flee at any moment. For Merlin's sake, she was treating Dean like he was the dangerous, unpredictable one.  
  
That thought made the Gryffindor pause. From what Dumbledore had told him, he very likely did seem threatening to her. Shit. Dean tried smiling again, but Pansy's face remained blank. She must practice that, he mused.  
  
Seeing that the newcomers were more or less comfortably seated, Dumbledore began his explanation. "Lovely," he smiled. "Miss Parkinson, I'm sure you're wondering what you're doing here, so let me assure you that all of us in this room," and his eyes rested briefly on Dean, "have your best interests in mind. We want you to be happy and . well. To be well." He paused to beam reassuringly at Pansy. "Did you know, Miss Parkinson, that Mr. Thomas is training to be a mediwizard? No? Well, he's particularly interested in psychology, and I thought it would be mutually beneficial if you were to study together." Having delivered his plan, the headmaster beamed once again.  
  
Pansy raised a single eyebrow. "But sir," she stated coolly, "I'm not interested in studying psychology."  
  
Dumbledore's smile didn't falter. "Ah, but Miss Parkinson, you could be such an aid to Mr. Thomas in his studies!" His eyes twinkled merrily as he entreated the blonde girl. "Now do say you'll give him your help. Is there anything, after all, more important than learning?" Pansy's mouth twitched and Dean wondered what humour she found in the situation. It seemed rather grotesque to him.  
  
"Of course, Professor Dumbledore," the girl stated, giving each word a peculiar weight. "If Thomas has no objections, I'd be happy to help him."  
  
Dean's jaw literally dropped, and action he hadn't thought actually happened to anyone. Dumbledore and Madam Pomfrey were looking at him questioningly. What had Pansy just said? Oh yes.  
  
"No," he croaked, "I don't have any, er, objections."  
  
Dumbledore smiled again and Madam Pomfrey sniffed to herself. Did she disapprove of the plan? Pansy was still sitting erect, eyes fixed on the headmaster.  
  
"I'd be happy to help," she repeated, "on one condition." Dumbledore's smile became ever-so-slightly strained at the corners, but his voice was gentle when he replied.  
  
"And what is that, dear girl?"  
  
"As I understand it," Pansy said, "Thomas and I are to work on a . research project, assigned by you, Sir. All right. But our meetings have to be private. I want all our research to remain confidential." Dumbledore's smile now took on a hint of relief.  
  
"Why of course, dear girl, nothing could be simpler. Mr. Thomas, you promise to discuss the fruit of your research only with those of us in this room, don't you?"  
  
"Of course. Yes, I promise." Dean slouched back in his chair, wondering what unforeseen consequences his oath might bring. Pansy, however, look satisfied.  
  
"Now," Dumbledore said briskly, "as to your meeting place, I--" He stopped suddenly, but Dean hardly noticed. His eyes were fixed on Fawkes, whom he had thought was sleeping. The phoenix had chosen that moment to rouse himself and make his way to . Pansy. As the three onlookers watched, two wide-eyed and one with a secretive smile, the phoenix landed lightly on the Slytherin's lap and began singing softly to her. Amazingly, Pansy smiled.  
  
After a moment, Dumbledore cleared his throat. Dean and Madam Pomfrey snapped to attention. "As I was saying," the headmaster continued, "I suggest that rather than meeting in a public area such as the Library, you would be more comfortable in a private room." Dean glanced back at Pansy, who was still enthralled with Fawkes. He blinked. She appeared to actually be singing with the phoenix now, but that surely couldn't be possible.  
  
"Isn't music wonderful?" The headmaster said softly. "In fact, I think I know just the room to use. You'll find it in the corridor just beyond the Transfiguration wing. Fourth door to the left. The password is 'cadence'. Have you got that?" Dean nodded. "Excellent. Poppy, I believe it's time you took Miss Parkinson back to the hospital wing for tonight. We can arrange a more permanent room later. The first meeting will be this Thursday afternoon at three. After that, you may arrange your own times. No, neither of you may miss your regular classes. Miss Parkinson?" Pansy looked up, and was it Dean's imagination, or had her always-expressionless face taken on a hint of sadness? "It's time for you to return to bed," Dumbledore said gently. "Madame Pomfrey will inform you of the arrangements." The girl nodded, casting a wistful glance at Fawkes. "And you may, of course, return whenever you like to visit Fawkes. Just be sure to make arrangements with Madam Pomfrey or your Head of House." Pansy's face lit up with a smile worthy of the old wizard himself and Dean choked. The night was just full of surprises.  
  
When they were once again alone in the room, Dumbledore turned to his student.  
  
"All set, Mr. Thomas?"  
  
Dean frowned. "Sir, I don't understand. Park-Pansy thinks we're doing some kind of research project. How am I supposed to get her to talk about herself?"  
  
"Mr. Thomas," the old wizard chided. "Miss Parkinson understood more than what was said. She is a Slytherin, remember. I do not believe you will have any trouble with her."  
  
The sixth year shook his head. "All right. But I really don't know how to bring up the subject. A research project, well, that's ordinary. You told me she's been suffering all kinds of abuse."  
  
"Indeed she has, Mr. Thomas. However, I think you will find it best to approach the topic as normally s possible. This is Miss Parkinson's life we're discussing; to her, it is ordinary."  
  
"Ordinary," Dean repeated. "Well sir, I'd better get back to Gryffindor Tower. When would you like to see me again?"  
  
"Thursday evening will be fine, when your meeting with Miss Parkinson is still fresh in your head. Nine o'clock?"  
  
Dean smiled. "I'll see you then, sir."  
  
"Good luck, Mr. Thomas." The headmaster sat back in his enormous chair, smiling beatifically.  
  
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The morning was cold, and made even bleaker by the fact that the Gryffindor sixth years were waiting in the dungeons for Potions to begin.  
  
"First class of the day," Neville moaned. "I'm always worst in the morning."  
  
A group of Slytherins arrived just in time to hear the end of Neville's statement.  
  
"Worst in the morning, Longbottom?" Pansy Parkinson sneered. "I don't see how it makes any difference. The only reason you aren't still with the third years is that Professor Snape wants you out of this school as soon as possible - or before you melt all our cauldrons too."  
  
Hermione stepped forward and cut in angrily. "Now you listen here, Parkinson, Merlin knows how you get your good marks in Potions, since you're so awful in everything else, but you have no right to talk to Neville like that!" Neville tugged on Hermione's sleeve as she continued ranting.  
  
"It's okay, Hermione," the inept boy half-whispered. "You don't have to . It's all right, just please ."  
  
"Stop."  
  
Silence fell on the crowd of students, heavy and taut with suspense. Dean tried to look around with his classmates to place the voice that had spoken so commandingly, but he had an awful feeling in the pit of his stomach that he wouldn't be seeing the speaker. Finally, it was Pansy who broke the silence.  
  
"What did you say . Thomas." It wasn't a question. Dean swallowed.  
  
"I ." he croaked. "Professor Snape's here!"  
  
"Oh well-observed, Mr. Thomas." The professor paused before unlocking the classroom. His gaze swept over the students, resting on Dean. No one dared to breathe. When Snape finally turned around, a collective sigh of relief rustled through the Gryffindors. Dean had been sure the Potions master had been about to take points.  
  
As the students filed into the room and prepared for class, Dean's mind was elsewhere. The scene in the hall had been typical, and he'd never before questioned that his friends were in the right. Only this time, he couldn't shake the feeling that Hermione had spoken just as harshly as Pansy.  
  
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Later that week, Thursday morning arrived. Dean had been hoping it wouldn't; Thursday morning would inevitably lead to Thursday afternoon, and that to his first meeting with Pansy. As the morning wore on, Dean became increasingly nervous. By lunchtime, all he could do was pray for some miracle to delay the reunion.  
  
"Say, Dean," commented Seamus, who was sitting next to Dean at the Gryffindor table, "you'll make yourself sick if you keep eating that fast."  
  
"If I'm lucky," Dean muttered. His stomach was in a knot and he didn't understand why he felt like eating at all. Actually, he hadn't even realized he'd been stuffing himself until Seamus had remarked on it.  
  
"Hey, what's that about?" Seamus clapped his friend of the shoulder, rather hard. "Look mate, this is just the first meeting of many. I know that doesn't sound reassuring, but you just have to set up a routine, and it'll all feel normal in no time." Dean avoided his friend's gaze. Although Seamus was his closest friend, Dean hadn't told him what the true nature of the meetings would be. Like everyone else, Seamus believed them to be nothing more than an extra-credit research project assigned by Dumbledore.  
  
"Anyway," Seamus added cheerfully, "I doubt she's any happier than you about it, eh?" He elbowed Dean in the ribs and the latter winced. "At least you two can miserable together. Hey, this could be the beginning of a beautiful friendship!"  
  
In spite of himself, Dean laughed. Somehow, Seamus always knew how to make him relax. The Gryffindor set off for his next class with a lighter heart. The worst that could happen is that they wouldn't make any progress. Right?  
  
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Pansy glanced at her watch and returned to staring at the wall. Transfiguration was always boring, but as her last class before her meeting with Thomas, it had a special tediousness. At the front of the room, McGonagall was barking out the importance of keeping a stiff wrist for powerful wand movements, but Pansy didn't care. She was deciding how late she ought to be for the meeting. Class ended at two-thirty, which gave her enough time to go back to her dormitory and not be more than ten minutes late. Ten minutes was good, she decided. Enough to prove she didn't want to be there without giving Thomas reason to complain to Dumbledore. Although they'd probably analyse everything she said later. The stones in the classroom wall were all different sizes, Pansy noted. She wondered what would happen if she summoned the large one near the floor. Arriving early had its advantages as well, but she didn't know the password to the room, and she certainly wasn't going to wait for Mr. Brave and Noble Gryffindor to open it for her.  
  
The feeling in the classroom changed, the tension heightening as the students realized class was almost over. Pansy gathered her things. Moments later, she found herself walking towards the dungeons. She didn't remember leaving the classroom. The Slytherin was aware that she was more concerned about the meeting than she cared to admit. Despite Dumbledore's reassurances, she knew she wasn't meant to study with Thomas so much as to let him study her. She had agreed for several reasons; the idyllic front the Gryffindors presented was obviously an act, and this would give her a chance to break their cover. As Gryffindors went, Thomas wasn't the worst, and Pansy was looking forward with a sick anticipation to shattering his ideal image of the world. The idea that it might be nice to talk to someone about her life was ridiculous, and Pansy ignored it. She certainly wasn't going to spill her deepest secrets to someone who regularly wore red around his throat. Pansy hated red, and throat was a particularly bad place for it.  
  
Pansy's feet stopped, and she realized she was back in the Transfiguration wing. She had obviously already left her books in her dorm, but she didn't remember doing it. She was going to have to stop doing that. The sixth year looked up the empty corridor to the fourth door on the left. It was open. Pansy shook back her hair and braced herself for the encounter.  
  
Thomas was already seated at a round table when Pansy walked through the door. She ignored him in favour of observing the room. It was a strange one. Rather than the regular stone tables, it had round wooden ones, and certainly not enough for a whole class. There was a piano in the corner and there were several wide steps built into the floor at the back of the room. There didn't appear to be any sort of teacher's desk. Other than a couple of cabinets and a row of odd-looking metal contraptions, the room was bare of anything to indicate what subject had been taught there.  
  
"They're music stands."  
  
Pansy whirled around. She had forgotten the other student's presence.  
  
"I saw you looking at them. They're for putting sheet music on, to read while you play. My mum has one." Thomas trailed off. Pansy rolled her eyes, but stepped towards the table.  
  
"Your mum's a Muggle."  
  
"So's my dad." Thomas was defiant. Pansy nodded.  
  
"So people played music here?"  
  
The Gryffindor shrugged. "I guess there used to be a class. Oh, the password's 'cadence', in case you get here first next time."  
  
"How optimistic," Pansy muttered, and was surprised when Dean laughed.  
  
"Here, sit down," he offered. "Let's get started." 


End file.
